The Golden Pig

by Jonathan Penny Mark Penny

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr Hunting-Baddeley, what can I do for you?”

  “For me? Nothing. For yourself, try being a detective before I’m forced to throw you through the nearest window. Remember me? Your partner, Mike Murphy; the idiot who went into business with you against his better judgment?”

  “Mike! Where’s the flippin’ furniture?!”

  “Aha, better late than never…my partner’s now only a cauliflower, instead of the full cabbage I’d feared!”

  “You said you’d fix it.”

  “And you said you’d raise the dosh.”

  “It’d be easier to raise the dead with my credit rating. The bank turned me down flat. Some mix up about a letter they thought I’d sent. You haven’t been writing to Captain Haddock at the A&E I suppose?”

  “What are you on about?” asked Mike.

  “It had something to do with fish anyway.”

  “Fish? You’re babbling man! Snap out of it.”

  “The name of the bank manager, you half-witted moron!”

  “Just watch it, Goldman or you’ll find yourself on the fast train to Edgware General.”

  “What me? Your old pal and business partner? The world’s greatest detective; Hymie Goldman? You wouldn’t threaten me, surely?”

  “Good to see you’re still full of it.”

  “Confidence?”

  “Bullshit!” exclaimed Mike.

  “Amounts to the same thing, Mike. So, where’s the furniture?”

  “On its way…good job one of us gets results. It should be here very soon so you’d better get a shave and brush up. You can’t see Lady Muck looking like something the horse left in its stall.”

  “P.I.’s are meant to look rugged and unkempt, Mike. You know, borderline disreputable.”

  “I know, but you’re way over the border mate. I wouldn’t hire you to clean my bog, let alone baby-sit my prize racehorse!”

  “Thanks for the testimonial. That bad, huh?”

  “Believe it, Dipstick.”

  “Okay, I’ll get a shave. I still have that Remington Fuzz-Away somewhere; that should do it.”

  While Hymie was performing his ablutions a furniture van pulled up at the kerb outside. Artful Arnie had arrived.

  “Oi, Murphy! You want this gear or wot?” he asked.

  Mike ambled to the window, opened it and bawled out something which might have been ‘alright’ and might not, but which certainly ended in ‘off!’ When Hymie looked out onto the street moments later the two bruisers were deep in conversation.

  “Need a hand Mike?” he called down, without enthusiasm.

  “You’re in no state for lifting furniture, H., just leave it to the experts. Get yourself ready for the client.”

  Never the most dedicated exponent of physical labour, it didn’t occur to Hymie to argue the point.

  Mike returned from his discussions with their office-furnishings consultant and the two budding detectives adjourned to the Black Kat for a dose of warm grease and caffeine while Arnie and his mate unloaded the van.

  Returning half an hour later, replete, contented and basking in the warm glow of a disaster averted, they stood on the threshold of their business premises waiting to be impressed at the last word in office chic arrayed before them. They needn’t have bothered.

  “What the flaming...!” said Hymie, struggling to give utterance to what they were both thinking.

  The filing carousels and personal computer were nowhere to be seen, the workstations and swivel chairs were absent without leave and the architect of the chaos that remained was noticeable by his absence.

  “I’ll kill that toe-rag, Arnie!” cried Mike, deeply moved.

  They seemed to have been transported back in time to the days of the Roman Empire. Papier maché columns and colonnades jostled with plaster busts of minor deities and obscure emperors with large noses. Ornate alabaster vases cluttered the surfaces and a linoleum mosaic of a hunting scene adorned the floor.

  “We’re knackered, H!”

  “We don’t have time to be knackered, Mike, the client will be here any minute. I’ve got to think of something. Something Big. Something so crazy, so unbelievable that no-one would bother to think it up!”

  “Oh, yes, how silly of me not to have thought of it myself,” said Mike, “…we took this scenery in payment for a debt owed by a travelling theatre? No, too obvious…we’ve got a new way-out marketing strategy? I know…you think you’re Julius Caesar! they’re sure to believe that one!”

  “You’re not helping,” said Hymie. “A lesser man would say it was all your fault.”

  “Shut it, Goldman. Face it, we’re scuppered. We may as well stick a sign on the door, “Gone Away” and head down the Job Centre.”

  “No way, Murphy. I’ve been in tighter scrapes than this. I can’t immediately think of them, but I must have been. Keep the faith, we’ll laugh about this one day.”

  “Yeah, the kind of hysterical laughter you produce just before the men in white coats wheel you away.” It was clear that Mike wasn’t used to putting a positive spin on disaster, unlike his business partner.

  The bickering would no doubt have degenerated into a punch-up had not the sound of a woman’s heels clicking down the passage outside brought them to their senses.

  “Leave it to me” hissed Hymie.

  “Good afternoon, Mr…”

  It took a great deal to stymie Lucinda Hunting-Baddeley, but they had managed it within the first minute of their first meeting. Walking off the Finchley Road into ancient Rome was liable to do that to a person.

  “Goldman, Hymie Goldman. I know what you’re thinking,” he said, with a hint of a smile.

  “You do?” she replied.

  “Yes, why the Roman stage scenery?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Well, pull up a divan and I’ll tell you. The answer is really very simple. A friend of mine runs an amateur theatre company nearby, The Strolling Players, putting on shows to raise money for charity, and one of his storage warehouses caught fire a few days ago. This was all they could salvage,” said Hymie, gesticulating at the furniture.

  “But why store it here?” asked Lucinda H-B.

  “Well, it was in a good cause and I didn’t think my clients would mind for a few days…bit of a novelty really.”

  She goggled at him momentarily and then simply caved-in.

  “Well, as long as there’s an explanation, I suppose,” she said, pulling up a divan.

  “Naturally, madam. You don’t think we make a habit of decorating the office like this surely?” said Hymie, gaining in confidence as every minute passed without the loss of his new client.

  “Well, as I’ve never met you before, I can hardly say, but I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt on this occasion, although surely your friend could have found some alternative storage space?”

  “Unfortunately he was uninsured, so he won’t even be able to replace the costumes and scenery he’s lost. I just couldn’t bring myself to turn him down when he asked for my help,” said Hymie, with ringing sincerity.

  “Good one” whispered Mike.

  “And you would be?”

  “I beg your pardon, Mrs Hunting-Badly, this is my junior partner and security consultant, Michael Murphy. He’s currently working undercover, as am I; hence our appearance. We need to be able to move freely through some of the rougher districts of North London.”

  “Oh I see. I was wondering. A high price indeed, Mr Goldman; being seen out in public like that. You will, of course, change your attire when you move into the stables won’t you? I won’t have Lightning being put off his food by smelly clothes.”

  Mike raised his eyebrows in alarm. He wasn’t about to ask too many questions of the client on first acquaintance but it seemed to him that Hymie was already displaying a serious disregard for the principle of keeping him informed.

  “Stables?” queried Hymie.

  “Well where else would you expect to stay?” aske
d Lucinda Hunting-Baddeley. “You can’t protect Lightning from kidnapping if you’re staying in a hotel now can you?”

  “No, I suppose not,” agreed Hymie, reluctantly.

  “Sorry, Mrs Er…who or what is Lightning?” asked Mike, who had been following some way behind the general drift of the conversation.

  “Good Heavens, Mr Murphy, I assumed you had been briefed on the assignment. I refer of course to Summer Lightning my championship racehorse. He’s running in the Gold Cup you know. Well, I’ve received several threats through the post, telling me that if I don’t scratch him from the runners-list something will happen to him.”

  “How dreadful,” remarked Hymie.

  “Precisely,” agreed Mrs Hunting-Baddeley.

  “Have you informed the police?” asked Mike.

  “Well, yes, but they didn’t seem to think they could do much about it until something had happened; by which time of course, it would be too late. So I asked around to see if anyone knew of a good security firm and someone mentioned you.”

  Mike and Hymie eyeballed each other in silent disbelief.

  “They said you were good with horses.”

  “You’re sure it wasn’t pigs?” asked Mike.

  She looked perplexed. “Why would it be with pigs? Aren’t you good with horses?”

  “Just Mr Murphy’s idea of a joke I’m afraid.” said Hymie. “I assure you we are good with horses. Very good in fact,” he bluffed.

  “Yes, Mr Goldman grew up on a farm and learned to ride at three…” said Mike, sarcastically.

  “Oh, where was that Mr Goldman?”

  “Out Hendon way,” replied Hymie, with no trace of irony.

  “I didn’t realize they had farms out there,” said their visitor.

  “Yes indeed, but we mustn’t let Mr Murphy hide his own light under a bushel,” remarked Hymie. “He used to work in stables as a boy; mucking in and mucking out, all over the summer holidays. Mike the Mucker they used to call him. The horses loved him.”

  Mike glowered.

  “Oh that is good to hear, Mr Goldman. I do so hope Lightning takes to you both. There’ll be a nice bonus in it for you if he wins the Gold Cup.”

  “Ah that reminds me,” said Hymie, hurriedly. “We need to discuss our scale of fees.”

  She sized him up and took the measure of him in a glance. “A hundred pounds a day plus expenses?” she suggested.

  “Each?” queried Mike.

  “You drive a hard bargain,” said Lucinda Hunting-Baddeley. She was kidding. Stuck in stables in the middle of nowhere there wouldn’t be any expenses.

  “It’s a deal,” said Mike. He couldn’t face living in ancient Rome for long and his own flat had surely been repossessed by now.

  “Good. Report for duty at two o’clock the day after tomorrow,” said their new client. “Here’s the address,” she said, handing Hymie a card. She turned briskly on her heel and clicked off down the corridor.

  “Let’s get one thing straight, Mike,” said Hymie, “I decide on how much we charge in fees. We could have held out for another fifty quid a week each!”

  “So you say, mate. I just thought we needed a break.”

  Part Twenty-Eight

  The convoy passed at a snail’s pace, possibly slower. The traffic in this particular suburb of North London had been getting worse daily for years to the point where it was now unquestionably quicker to walk. Quicker, but not safer. More accustomed to the soft leather upholstery of her Mercedes-Benz, Steffanie Scarlatti was going quietly insane in the back if the police van.

  “Got a ciggie, Sweetie?”

  PC Reidy gazed at her in dumbstruck awe. He just couldn’t accept the fact that this vision of loveliness was the murdering bitch everyone believed her to be.

  “Go on officer, I’m gasping,” she said.

  It was he who was gasping. He drew out an open packet of cigarettes from his tunic pocket and offered her one. She smiled a devastating smile and took the packet.

  “Got a light, constable?”

  He lit her. He would have liked to have kindled another kind of fire in her but he was conscious of the irreconcilable gulf between them. Criminals were one species, law enforcement officers another and except in the course of duty, never the twain should meet. It didn’t quite work like that though, did it?

  The clock crept on, imperceptibly slowly. Reidy’s mind began to drift to his plans for later that evening. He thought of the barmaid in the Rose and Crown, a buxom blonde called Jenny. He’d been seeing her for a couple of weeks now. Maybe tonight would be his lucky night. About ruddy time too.

  It wasn’t to be. The grand orchestrator in the sky was on his tea-break.

  Outside the van flares began to explode, shrouding the convoy in a red mist and spreading their crimson rage across the grey sky. Visibility first reduced and then became completely obscured.

  Inside the van Steffanie Scarlatti lunged forward from her bench and stubbed out her smouldering cigarette in Reidy’s face.

  He doubled up in agony and screamed in a torrent of pain, but only momentarily before being battered unconscious against the side of the van. He slumped to the floor, was swiftly dispossessed of his handcuff keys and had he been conscious and able to see through the fog, would have seen the object of his desire making a quick getaway down the street, aided and abetted by external allies with some serious industrial metal-cutters.

  The escape hit the TV and radio news within the hour.

  “The public are warned to be on their guard against escaped prisoner Steffanie Scarlatti...

  Scarlatti, aged twenty five, height 6 feet, was last seen in Camden Town, North London this afternoon when a police van escorting her to Holloway prison pending committal proceedings for a range of offences including murder was hijacked. The public are advised not to approach this woman. She is believed to be armed and is highly dangerous. Police have issued the following fotofit picture of the woman. Anyone with information as to her whereabouts should contact the Metropolitan Police on 0845….”

  Click!

  Lau pressed a button on his remote controlled handset and Steffie Scarlatti was consigned to the airwaves. If only it were that simple.

  “You have become something of a celebrity, Ms Scarlatti. Let me be the first to congratulate you,” observed Lau.

  “Save it, Lau. Celebrity has no value to me you slitty-eyed reptile. It never pays to advertise my activities.”

  “As you wish. I didn’t bring you here to discuss your personal popularity, or lack of it, we have arrangements to make. First, however, a word of warning: if you have the slightest idea of betraying my trust or murdering me in my bed, get rid of it now. Until you have completed our bargain you will be under constant supervision. Should that prove insufficient incentive, I need only remind you that I have a file on you so comprehensive it would guarantee your removal from society for an eternity. When you did go free you would be old and wrinkled and ugly and your future would be bleak.” He knew exactly how to manipulate people to achieve maximum control.